


only the sweetest words remain (accidentally welcome to the rest of your lives remix)

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Casual Sex, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Enemies to Lovers, Erik Has Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25179739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: When the Prince of Wales comes to study for a semester in New York, Erik resolves to hate him immediately on principle. The last thing he expects is for a round of drunken sex at a frat party to turn into a habit, and for that habit to turn into something far riskier for them both — and far truer than anything they've ever known.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 70
Kudos: 569
Collections: X-Men Remix Madness 2020





	only the sweetest words remain (accidentally welcome to the rest of your lives remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kianspo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Accidentally Welcome to the Rest of Your Lives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/432738) by [kianspo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo). 
  * In response to a prompt by [kianspo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo) in the [xmen_remix_madness2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmen_remix_madness2020) collection. 



> Thank you so much, kianspo, for letting me play in your sandbox. The original work is such an inspiration. I blame this fic on having just finished red, white, and royal blue and being in the middle of rereading anarchy in the u.k. I really hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Title taken from "turning page" by sleeping at last. Please forgive the inaccuracies re: how the British monarchy works. I pretty much made everything up.

Erik had had plenty of uncharitable thoughts about the Prince of Wales since the moment he’d heard that said prince was coming to spend a semester abroad at Columbia, dragging with him his gaggle of handlers, security, assistants, and whoever-the-fuck-else traveled with British royalty whenever they went anywhere. Kitty had been nearly swooning with excitement when she’d sprung the news on him. When Erik had peppered her with questions — could she imagine how much taxpayers were shelling out for the prince to have an extended vacation in New York? how fucking inconvenient was this going to be for all the other students unlucky enough to share a class with the prince? and anyway, the monarchy was an archaic and immoral institution that represented a history of oppression, genocide, prejudice, and was she even listening to him? — Kitty had put her hand over his face, shoved him away, and fondly told him to shut the fuck up.

The prince’s arrival hadn’t endeared him to Erik one bit. He’d sailed onto campus like a fucking movie star, dressed down in dark slacks and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Erik’s monthly rent, escorted by a handful of men and women in black suits and tailed at a distance by a cluster of reporters and photographers. He hadn’t shied away from the cameras at all; in fact, he’d very happily posed for them, and he’d taken his time going through the crowd of people on the campus green, shaking hands, taking selfies, signing t-shirts and flyers (and one girl’s boob evidently, according to the Tweets flooding in under the hashtag _PrinceCharlesInNY)._ Erik was revolted.

His opinion hadn’t changed much in the month since. Prince Charles, it turned out, was in Erik’s Political Economy class, as well as his Comparative Politics seminar, and his Mutant Political History lecture series. He was extremely annoying in all of them, he had ludicrously naïve and wrong opinions, and the worst part was, everyone sighed and fluttered their eyelashes like lovestruck peacocks every time he opened his mouth. It drove Erik mad.

“You’re just determined to hate him because you made up your mind to hate him before he got here and now you don’t want to admit you’re wrong,” Kitty told him over lunch once afternoon. She stole two of his fries and nearly dripped ketchup on his jeans as she reached across him.

“I’m not wrong,” Erik replied, retaliating by stealing her carrot sticks. It was an uneven trade. “He’s an arrogant, privileged, stuck-up know-it-all who loves being the center of attention and showing off how much he learned at Eton or wherever.”

“He’s also really nice and he’ll take pictures with anyone who asks, and last week he went to the talent show and donated like, twice the fundraising goal for the Women’s Business Society so…”

“PR stunt.”

“Well I notice _you_ didn’t go…”

“I was busy,” Erik said, exasperated. “I was at my mom’s for Shabbat.”

Kitty laughed at his aggrieved expression. “I know, I know. Just saying though. He’s nice.”

“He does nice things,” Erik corrected. “That doesn’t make him nice. And _nice_ doesn’t mean anything either.” People could be perfectly nice while savagely undercutting you, or scheming behind your back, or any number of nasty things. 

“Stubborn asshole,” Kitty accused, stealing another fry. 

Ever since they’d met, Erik had called the prince a number of different names in his head: _naïve idiot,_ and _privileged asshole,_ and _idealistic dumbass._ One thing he had never thought of — had never even _dreamed_ of — was this: _amazing cocksucker._

Which was what he was blabbering as he pressed his back against the locked bathroom door, his jeans around his ankles, his knees trembling with the pressure to buckle as the Prince of Wales knelt between them, drunkenly licking and mouthing at Erik’s cock with full enthusiasm and a surprisingly equal amount of skill. 

“Fuck,” Erik hissed out as the prince tongued the sensitive underside of his cock. “God, you’re good at this.”

The prince looked up at him, those bright blue eyes even brighter than usual in the harsh glow of the bathroom lights, his cherry-red mouth slick with spit and pre-come as he took Erik’s cock in, sloppy and wet, and Erik gripped his hair with another curse, feeling his thighs shake. He pulled on the prince’s hair hard enough to make him whine, and that sent a frisson of excitement through Erik, heat pouring down his spine. How many people in the world could say they’d had the Prince of Wales on his knees in front of them, practically in supplication? How many people had managed to shut him up like this?

He yanked on the prince’s hair again, and the prince arched against him, hands on Erik’s hips, and made a sound that pulled Erik’s orgasm out of him with all the force of being struck by a bullet train.

Once he’d recovered his senses, Erik jacked the prince’s cock with rough efficiency, cradling the prince against him as he leaned against the door. The prince bit his lip, clearly trying to be quiet. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Erik doubted anyone would be able to hear them over the pounding music of the party raging on downstairs. Still, when Erik said, “Never would’ve thought you’d be such an amazing cocksucker, Your Highness,” and the prince gasped out a sharp sound against Erik’s shoulder and came into his hand, trembling, Erik felt a dark thrill of satisfaction for having managed to wrench that sound from him.

Afterwards, they washed their hands in the sink and cleaned up as best as they could. The prince picked over his appearance in the mirror, tugging his shirt straight again, combing through his tousled hair with his fingers. Even with his clothes back on, he seemed a little dazed, fucked out. Erik was pleased by that, by having ruined his composure.

The doorknob jiggled. The prince jumped, eyes wide.

Erik held the lock closed with his powers, just in case, and a moment later, the jiggling stopped.

“Well,” said the prince into the relative silence of the bathroom. “Er…”

“I’m going back out,” Erik said brusquely. “You can leave in five minutes.”

“Oh,” the prince said, as if he’d been expecting Erik to say something different. “I…” He swallowed and rubbed his fingers against his temple, looking slightly queasy. “I don’t think I have to ask you to be discreet about…this. But would you? Be discreet?”

He was worried about Erik telling someone, Erik realized. He was worried about Erik telling the world that the Prince of Wales was gay, and possibly that his mouth was as good at sucking cock as it looked.

Erik couldn’t decide if he was offended or felt sorry for him. Probably both.

“I would never out anyone against their will,” Erik said coldly. “I’m an asshole, but I’m not _that_ much of an asshole.”

A sweep of his powers told him the hallway outside was empty. He unlocked the door, cracked it open, slipped out, and shut it again behind him — but not before he saw the look of deep relief on the prince’s face.

*

It happened again, this time in the backroom of the coffeeshop Erik worked at. He had been ringing up the total for a girl’s coffee and banana bread order when the bell above the front door jingled and he looked over to see the prince sliding off his sunglasses as he came in, cool as you please. Instantly the atmosphere in the coffeeshop changed, became charged — the few patrons studying or hanging out at the tables turned toward the prince with varying degrees of recognition and interest. Erik felt the click of phone cameras, though no one was being obvious enough for the prince to notice.

“Hello,” said the prince in that infuriatingly posh accent, leaning up against the counter, “I was told that I must absolutely try the blueberry muffin here — it’s to die for or something like that.”

And he gave Erik a crooked grin that made Erik want to smack him, or kiss him, or kiss him and then smack him. With a glower, Erik said, “Do want something to drink with that?”

He had no idea what strings the prince had pulled or what he told his handlers, but ten minutes later, he made up some bland excuse about needing help finding the bathroom and Erik had him pinned up against the shelf of coffee beans, thrusting between his thighs.

“Oh,” the prince breathed out as Erik rutted against him roughly, without elegance. He had his own hand over his mouth, stifling any sound Erik punched out of him. What would he sound like if he were allowed to let loose? Erik wondered. What kind of beautiful noises would he make if Erik were fucking him, hard and without mercy?

Erik kept thrusting until he was on the brink and then he shoved the prince forward, jacking his cock until he came all over the prince’s pale, round ass. Then he reached around and jerked the prince off, holding him when he collapsed back against Erik’s chest with a tiny, desperate sound.

When they were done, the prince smiled and said, “See you again soon, darling?” and laughed lightly when Erik scowled. He paid for his tea (Earl Grey, like a fucking walking cliché) and his blueberry muffin, took a few pictures for some students in the corner, and left the shop without looking back.

That evening as Erik exited the elevator on the way to his apartment, he found a woman in a black suit standing next to his door. He recognized her instantly as one of the prince’s people — she was one of the prince’s favorites, he thought; they were always standing pretty close, heads bent as they talked. As he came closer, wary, she held out a folder.

“What’s this?” Erik asked, not moving to take it.

“A few housekeeping details,” she replied. “May I come in?” 

“Uh, my roommate might be home — ”

“He’s not. He’s downtown at a bar with his friends.”

Erik stared at her, incredulous. “Are you stalking me?” 

“Necessary precautions,” she said briskly. “May I come in?”

Erik had a feeling she’d force her way in if he said no, and even if he threw her out again, he’d probably be bringing the wrath of the British monarchy down on his head for defying them, and as much as he’d love to tangle with them, he wasn’t at all prepared to take on a fight of that size yet. So he opened the door and let her in.

“I’m Moira MacTaggert,” she said as he shut the door behind them, “the prince’s assistant.”

“Okay,” Erik said, still mystified and wary. “What does that have to do with me?”

She held out the folder again with a look of mild exasperation. “It’s an NDA.”

“What?”

“A non-disclosure agreement,” she said slowly, as if he were a child.

“I know what an NDA is,” Erik snapped. “What, the prince doesn’t trust me? I told him I’d be discreet.”

“And why on earth would he trust your word?” MacTaggert asked, dry as bone. She had a Scottish burr that made it sound like she thought Erik was particularly idiotic — or perhaps she really did think Erik was an idiot. Before Erik could reply, she added, “Even if he _did_ trust your word, you would still have to sign. It’s standard procedure.”

It made sense, of course. The prince knew nearly nothing about him. The prince couldn’t rely on Erik’s promises not to go running straight to the press or to social media on a whim. Not with a secret as big as this.

Still, Erik was annoyed. How long had the prince had his people monitoring Erik? Did they have a file on him, complete with his birth certificate and his parking tickets and his sealed juvie record? Did they know everything about him now, invading his life and his secrets like they had any right to them?

No, he wasn’t annoyed. He was _angry_.

“I’m not signing that,” he said, crossing his arms.

MacTaggert’s expression was flat. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“I’ll make you leave.”

“Then I’ll come back with backup.” She threw the folder down onto the coffee table and drew a pen out of her breast pocket. “Don’t make this difficult. I promise you that if you intend to release any personal information about the prince — ”

“I don’t.”

“ — it would not end well for you,” she finished. 

“I’m not going to say anything,” Erik growled. No matter how much he disliked the prince, he wasn’t going to rat him out, especially not about something so personal like this. “That doesn’t mean I appreciate being stalked and _ambushed_ like this. Doesn’t personal privacy mean anything to you people?”

“Not when it comes to the prince,” MacTaggert answered. She held out the pen. “I don’t care if you swear up and down you’ll never breathe a word: you’re signing. The sooner you do, the sooner I leave and let you get on with your evening. Or do you want me hovering around for the rest of the foreseeable future?”

The thing was, Erik understood. The prince was covering his ass. The prince _had_ to cover his ass; a scandal like this would rock the entire royal family, maybe the entire British monarchy. On the one hand, that sounded fantastic, exactly the shakeup they deserved. On the other hand, Erik didn’t quite like that it would come at the expense of a boy who, aside from being annoying and condescending and richer than God, couldn’t control who he was attracted to any more than Erik could.

If the prince were a bigot of any sort — homophobic, racist, mutantphobic — Erik would be perfectly happy to let him burn. But for the “crime” of being gay? Erik would beat the shit out of anyone who tried to take the prince down for that.

“Fine,” he said, yanking the pen from her hand with a jerk of his power.

He made her stand there as he read through every page of the contract, even the tiny footnotes at the bottom. To her credit, she only seemed mildly bored by the time he finally signed on the dotted lines and handed the packet back to her. Tucking the folder under her arm, she said, “Have a good evening, Mr. Lehnsherr,” and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Erik called out before he could think better of it. “Does that mean…” He struggled to think of a way to phrase his question that didn’t sound too lewd. “Is the prince expecting this to happen again?” he said finally.

MacTaggert gave him a very cool look. “That is between you and His Royal Highness. Good day, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

After she left, Matilda came slinking out from her hiding place under the TV stand, purring and demanding cuddles. Erik gathered her up and rocked her gently, still trying to process what had just happened. “What the fuck was that, hmm?” he said to her, scratching her ears. “What the fuck was that?”

*

Evidently the prince _had_ expected it to happen again, and he was right. Erik got pretty good at giving handjobs in cramped spaces — in a supply closet (God, like they were on a stupid CW show or something), in another bathroom at another frat party, and once, memorably, in the locker room after one of Erik’s soccer games (the prince had sat in the bleachers surrounded by dozens of students more interested in him than in the game, but he’d only stared at Erik the whole time, which had made Erik oddly self-conscious and nearly cost them the game when Erik literally tripped over his feet when making a pass).

Sometimes they didn’t have the opportunity to just duck into a private area, so the prince would say casually, “Dinner on me?” and Erik would follow him to get takeout and they’d bide their time until it seemed safe enough to sneak off, and they’d fuck in the bathroom or somewhere else handy and nearby. It was never quite comfortable or easy, but Erik almost preferred it that way. Harder to get used to it — this, them, whatever they were — if they didn’t have a set routine.

The prince was still annoying, of course. He and Erik still argued in class as if every lecture were a debate tournament. Just because the prince had a nice ass didn’t mean his opinions had gotten any less wrong, and the prince seemed to take particular pleasure in needling Erik and riling him up. But at some point, entirely without Erik’s consent, _the prince_ became _Charles,_ and _arguing with Charles_ became _foreplay_. When Erik realized one day that he was practically grinning as he stared Charles down and informed him exactly how stupid his idea of reforming the U.S. healthcare system was, Erik felt a judder of surprise. He was _enjoying_ this. More than that, he was _savoring_ it, knowing that it would eventually lead to Charles pushing him into a locked room and dropping to his knees, or ordering Erik down.

Erik had no idea what the fuck that meant. All he knew was that he didn’t like it, _shouldn’t_ like it.

But he allowed Charles to keep pulling him away to secret rendezvouses, allowed him to keep luring Erik into sexual encounters under the pretense of buying him dinner. It wasn’t until they were panting and shuddering against each other in the backroom of Erik’s coffeeshop after-hours, still trembling in the aftermath of their orgasms, and Charles murmured, “Will you please come home with me, darling?” that Erik realized that this had gone entirely too far.

Pushing Charles off him, he hastily pulled up his pants, not bothering to wipe himself off. “I should go.”

Charles stared at him open-mouthed for a moment. Then he scrambled to pull his own clothes back on, hands fumbling with his belt. “What? Erik, I — ”

“You go first,” Erik told him tersely. “I have to lock up.”

Charles swallowed. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

What on earth did he think they were? They weren’t _boyfriends_. They weren’t going to go home and cuddle in bed. They were convenient fuck buddies, that was all. Erik needed to blow off some steam; Charles needed someone he’d already coerced into an NDA. It wasn’t anything more than that.

“Just go,” Erik said shortly.

Charles looked at him for another long moment, then silently picked his sweatshirt up off the floor and left.

*

It took Erik a while to identify the itchy, restless feeling under his skin. All his friends gave him a wide berth over the next week, and even Kitty, who had weathered all his moods so many times she was practically immune to them, told him it was obvious something was up.

“You’re being an even bigger asshole than you usually are,” she said over lunch. They were sitting on the lawn even though it was getting too cold to sit outside on the ground. Most other students had taken their lunches inside. “Like, there’s your baseline level of assholery, and then there’s the level you’re at right now.”

Erik merely grunted, not interested in engaging her.

“See? That’s what I mean.” She studied him. “Did something happen?”

“Like what?” he asked, annoyed.

“Like…something with Charles?”

His head snapped up. He hated how that betrayed him instantly. “What about Charles?”

“I don’t know.” Kitty continued to watch him, eyes bright and strangely knowing. “You guys used to hang out all the time, and now you haven’t talked to him all week. I heard you’re ignoring him in class, too — Janos told me.”

Janos was a political science major and shared most of Erik’s classes. Funny, Erik thought peevishly, that Janos would be the one to talk; he barely spoke a word in class most of the time.

“So?” Erik said. “And we didn’t hang out _all_ the time.”

“Yes, you did,” Kitty said steadily. “You were always getting dinner with him, remember? And you guys went to those chess club meetings together — ”

“ _One_ time.” Charles had been delighted at the idea of a chess club and invited Erik to come check it out with him, which Erik had known was only a ruse to get Erik alone on campus after most of the buildings had emptied out. They’d only played one game before they’d snuck off to the bathroom, and Erik had fucked Charles up against the mirror.

“And,” Kitty barreled on, “he’s always at your soccer games, and you even got him to start coming to the Mutant and Proud meetings!”

Erik hadn’t done a thing; Charles had started showing up to those meetings of his own accord. Truth be told, Erik hadn’t liked him there. Dropping in on their meetings felt like a violation of their safe space, a place where they could talk about their ideas and fears and hopes and dreams without censure. Charles wasn’t there because he gave a shit about mutant rights. He was there because he was hoping to get Erik to sneak off with him afterwards for a quickie somewhere, and that rubbed Erik in all the wrong ways.

Jaw clenched, he said, “Nothing happened.”

“Erik,” Kitty said in exasperation, but he gathered up his lunch and his backpack and left her behind on the lawn before she could go on.

She was right about one thing though: he _was_ being a bigger asshole than usual, and when he finally sat down at the end of the week and gave it more than a few seconds’ thought, he realized why.

He missed Charles. He hadn’t seen Charles for a week, and he _missed_ him.

It wasn’t as if he’d been actively avoiding Charles. It was just that Charles was always the one who approached _him_ , never the other way around, and for some reason, Erik hadn’t seen much of him over the past week. They saw each other in class, of course, but Charles always arrived precisely on time and left before Erik had even finished packing up his notes. He hadn’t been by the coffeeshop at all, and he hadn’t stopped by the M&P meeting they’d had on Wednesday night either. Aside from their shared lectures, Erik hadn’t seen hide or hair of him.

Obviously Charles was avoiding him. What was less obvious was _why_.

Was he upset about Erik not wanting to go back to his place with him? Had he taken that as, what, a rejection?

 _Idiot_ , Erik thought at him crossly.

He meant to corner Charles sometime over the next week and explain that what they had was strictly casual, and he didn’t want anything lovey-dovey, he just wanted sex. But then he got caught up in organizing a campus rally to protest the latest incarnation of a mutant registration initiative being slipped into a bill about border security, and then at the rally itself, he got into it with a racist asshole shouting about building a wall and microchipping mutants. One thing led to another, and before he knew it, he was being tossed into a holding cell with a split lip, rage still simmering under his skin, his whole being still spoiling for a fight.

He waited until he was calmer to ask for his phone call, knowing that he needed composure, not anger, to call his mother. She would come bail him out like she always did, never angry, only resigned and sad and, underneath that, quietly supportive. She never pretended to know what he was going through as a mutant, and as a bisexual man, but never let it be said that she had ever loved him any less for it.

But when he asked for his phone call, the guard told him his bail had just been posted. Confused, he gathered his things, glared at the racist asshole still sitting in the holding cell down the hall from him, and left.

A black town car was waiting outside. MacTaggert stood in front of it, and when he came down the steps slowly, she opened the back door.

Erik hesitated for a second, then slid in.

Charles’s eyes widened when he saw Erik’s face. “Your mouth!”

“You should see the other guy,” Erik grunted. 

“I _did_ see the other guy. Sort of.” At Erik’s puzzled look, he explained, “I saw everything. Someone was streaming the rally on Facebook, and I saw you get into that fight and I…I was worried.”

“Worried?”

“I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Erik shrugged, unsure why he was annoyed by Charles’s concern. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to. And the bail wasn’t much anyway, I didn’t mind paying it — ”

 _Wasn’t much_. Of course it wasn’t much to him. Charles had millions of millions of pounds tucked away in his accounts; he was happily sustained in his cushy lifestyle by his inheritance and by U.K. taxpayers. He probably dropped more on new shoes every month than he had on Erik’s bail. But Erik’s mother would have quietly withdrawn that same amount from her savings, would have rationed out her purchases for the next few months to make up for the expense, would have had to scrape and budget for it…

It was so fucking unfair, so infuriatingly _uneven_ , that Erik wanted to fly across the car and punch Charles in the mouth.

Instead, he grabbed Charles by the collar and yanked him into a bruising kiss.

Charles made a shocked noise against his mouth, then melted against him. Erik kissed him until he was gasping for breath, until his split lip throbbed and he could taste blood on his teeth. Then he pulled back, gave Charles a shake, and said, “I want to fuck you.”

Charles stammered at him for a moment, then nodded. He knocked on the partition until it lowered slightly and exchanged a few words with the driver. After a moment, they were off.

They didn’t speak. Charles sat on the other side of the car, his mouth red where Erik had bitten it, his gaze alternating between Erik and the scenery outside. Erik slouched against the leather seat, licking at his bloody lip, feeling a hard, dark energy crawling under his skin, a violence that was building with every passing second.

When they got to Charles’s place, Erik barely gave it a second look. He didn’t care where Charles lived, didn’t care what his sense of décor was like or what knickknacks he’d acquired in his three and a half months in New York. He said sharply, “Bed,” and Charles silently led him to the bedroom.

Erik stood in the threshold for a moment, staring at the enormous four-poster bed against the wall. As he did, Charles stripped, first his Columbia sweatshirt, then his shirt, then his jeans and boxers and socks. Then he went to the nightstand and drew out lube and a condom and held them out.

Violence still burning just under his skin, Erik grabbed both and pushed Charles down onto the bed.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. He pushed into Charles before Charles was fully ready, and he fucked him hard, ruthless, not caring when Charles’s cries sounded like they were on the edge of pain, not pleasure. But Charles said nothing, didn’t push him away, and he came readily enough when Erik reached underneath him and got a hand around his cock.

Afterwards, Erik collapsed down onto the bed beside him, panting for breath. The aching fury in his chest was still there, but it felt duller now, quieter. Manageable again. Sprawled on his front, Charles watched him with those soft blue eyes of his, and Erik looked away, unable to bear it.

“Alright now?” Charles asked, his voice gravelly.

Erik shot him a glare. “I’m fine.”

“I — I didn’t say you weren’t.” Charles turned on his side, hands tucked under his pillow as he gazed over at Erik. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Irritated now, Erik sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What is there to talk about?”

“He said nasty things to you, Erik. I heard it in the video. I don’t blame you for losing your head, I probably would have done the same — ”

“No, you wouldn’t have!” Erik whirled on him, the storm inside him building again, stirred back to life. “You’ve probably never heard a _nasty thing_ in your entire life. You’ve never been called _mutie freak_. You can’t possibly know what that feels like.”

Charles bit his lip.

“You’re always pretending you know better than everyone else,” Erik hissed. “You’re always pretending like you know what other people feel, what they go through. But you don’t. You’re a goddamned prince, you’re one of the richest people in the world, you’ve got more privilege in your fucking pinky finger than most people could ever have. _Don’t_ pretend like you know me. You don’t know a single thing about me.”

He rolled out of bed and started yanking on his clothes. The bedsheets rustled as Charles sat up behind him, and Erik felt his gaze on his back, heavy and inscrutable. He said nothing as Erik shoved on his boots and his coat. He said nothing as Erik pulled the bedroom door open with a twitch of his powers and stalked out.

Erik didn’t look back as he left.

*

They kept their distance for the rest of the semester. Charles rarely spoke up in class anymore, even when the professors attempted to draw him into conversations, and when he _did_ say something, it was always only a brief remark. Sometimes he would show up late to class, and other times he would leave early. No one said anything of course; he was the prince, after all.

Erik couldn’t help but notice the new dark shadows under Charles’s eyes, like they had been smudged with charcoal. He had always been pale, but now he seemed sallow and drawn. He always had a smile ready at hand if someone’s attention passed over him, but the moment he thought no one was looking, that smile slipped away, as if keeping it up was too much effort.

Bastard. If a few harsh words — all _true_ words — could knock him off his feet like this, then maybe he deserved it. Charles needed someone to call him on his bullshit. It was clear that no one else in his life dared to, or cared to. Maybe if he actually took the time to grapple with what Erik had said, he’d learn not to act so high and mighty all the time. He’d realize that he really ought to shut up and listen instead of enjoying the sound of his own voice.

Then, one afternoon as Dr. Henderson droned on about public education and the religious establishment, the door at the back of the lecture hall opened and MacTaggert slunk down the stairs to Charles’s seat. Bending low, she whispered something into Charles’s ear that made him go bone-white. Instantly Erik straightened in his seat, a tangle of emotions in his chest. He was sitting across the room though, so there was nothing he could do except watch as Charles fumbled his laptop into his bag and hurried out of the room, MacTaggert on his heels.

Though Erik did his damnedest to put Charles out of his mind, he couldn’t focus on the rest of the lecture. He kept seeing Charles’s ashen face, the way his mouth had dropped open slightly, the way his gait had been unsteady as he’d headed for the door. What had MacTaggert said to him? What could frighten Charles that much?

And why the hell did Erik care? It was none of Erik’s business. They were no longer even involved, so whatever tentative ties Erik had built with Charles had been thoroughly severed. What happened to the prince didn’t concern him.

He went to the library after class to catch up on the essay for Comparative Politics that he had due next week. Sliding on his headphones, he put on a classical music playlist and stared at his half-written essay for the twentieth time, trying to figure out how to start the next paragraph.

Nearly three hours later, he’d banged out a rough draft and a messy bibliography that still needed to be properly formatted. Shutting his laptop, he slid it and his headphones into his backpack and noticed that he had unread messages on his phone.

A lot of unread messages. Two missed phone calls from Kitty. Frowning, slightly worried, Erik thumbed his phone open and checked his texts.

[Kitty Kat 5:36 p.m.] OH MY GOD ERIK DID YOU KNOW!!!

[Kitty Kat 5:37 p.m.] YOU NEVER TOLD ME!!!!!

[Kitty Kat 5:45 p.m.] where are you??? we gotta talk!!!!

[Kitty Kat 6:03 p.m.] is it true he left???

[Kitty Kat 6:05 p.m.] ERIK CALL ME BACK, I NEED ANSWERS

[Kitty Kat 6:42 p.m.] dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8023719/Prince-Charles-bombshell-secret-leaked.html

[Kitty Kat 6:42 p.m.] ok people still don’t know if it’s real but if he just left that’s pretty suspicious right???

Erik’s heart shot up to his throat. Someone had talked. Who had talked? _He_ hadn’t talked. Who else knew about them? Charles’s security team? His handlers? Moira MacTaggert? Had someone seen them? Had someone, God forbid, gotten _pictures?_

Dread pooling in his gut, he clicked the link Kitty had sent.

**EXCLUSIVE: Leaked documents reveal Prince Charles’s mutant status**

Wait, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t the bombshell secret Charles was harboring.

Erik’s eyes skimmed through the rest of the article in disbelief. When he reached the bottom, he realized he hadn’t absorbed a single word, so he scrolled back up and started again.

  * **Documents obtained by a confidential source reveal that the royal family has been keeping Prince Charles’s mutant status under wraps for nineteen years**
  * **Prince Charles reportedly possesses telepathic abilities that manifested at birth**
  * **Leaked documents include Prince Charles’s Halbrook-Tien score, taken at age 12, which rank him as an omega-level mutant**
  * **Royal physicians were instructed to ‘keep the silence or else’ about Prince Charles’s mutation, said an insider source close to the royal family**
  * **Buckingham Palace has yet to issue a statement**



Charles was a mutant? Charles was a telepath? An _omega-level_ telepath?

Why the fuck hadn’t he said anything?

_Because he was keeping it a secret, you fuckwit. Because it was a scandal waiting to be broken open._

This was bigger than Charles liking men. There was no sense in comparing prejudices, but Erik knew instinctively that Charles being a telepath upended much more than the world’s delicate sensibilities. A gay man couldn’t steal state secrets as easy as breathing. A gay man couldn’t be suspected of espionage and trickery at every turn. But a telepath could.

Erik hated society’s anti-psionic bias. It was as bullshit as every other flavor of mutantphobia, and the fact that anti-psionic sentiment was so pervasive even in mutant circles was a mark of shame on the whole community. But he knew what people would think. He knew this was worse than if he had talked.

He grabbed his backpack and practically ran out of the cubicle, shoving his phone to his ear. Kitty picked up on the second ring.

“Did you see?” she exclaimed. “Oh my God!”

“What do you mean ‘he left’?” Erik demanded.

“Is it true? Is he really a telepath? Oh my God, no wonder he went to the M&P meetings! I thought he was just an ally the whole time!”

“ _Kitty_ , what do you mean _‘he left’?”_

“Didn’t you hear? He’s on his way back to London.”

“What?”

“Yeah, his people packed up everything and they left. Twitter says he took a private jet back to London to do damage control. He wouldn’t have gone back if it was nothing, right? So that means it’s true, right?”

Erik’s head spun. She was right: it had to be true. That shattered look on Charles’s face had said it all.

And he’d never breathed a word to Erik.

“Did you know?” Kitty asked, excited. “Did he tell you?”

“I have to go.”

“Erik! _Tell me —_ ”

He hung up.

He was only vaguely aware of walking home. When he stepped inside and padded down the entryway, Azazel was on the couch, the murmur of the TV filling the living room. Erik was startled to see Charles’s face plastered on the screen, a bland, smiling portrait, obviously a posed picture. The chyron read, BREAKING NEWS: LEAKED DOCUMENTS REVEAL PRINCE CHARLES IS A TELEPATH. On the screen, Wolf Blitzer was saying something about how this was an unprecedented situation, and about how Buckingham Palace hadn’t released a statement yet, and the Prince of Wales’s Communications Secretary was currently unreachable —

“Aren’t you guys friends?” Azazel asked, peering at him from over the back of the couch.

“No,” Erik said with less conviction than he usually felt.

“You had no idea?”

“No.”

“Fuck, man.”

The screen flashed to a new picture, this time a candid: Charles on the tarmac, hurrying for the plane, his face slightly blurred and obscured by MacTaggert moving in front of him, hand out toward the camera. Despite the graininess of the picture, Erik could easily make out Charles’s expression: he looked hunted, his eyes shuttered, his mouth pinched into a tight, unhappy line.

 _Are you okay?_ Erik wanted to ask him. Stupid question. But a small voice from somewhere deep inside him added, _I want you to be okay_.

“I wonder if they’ll let him be king someday,” Azazel mused. “Or maybe they’ll just kick him out — they were obviously hoping this would never come out. They knew how bad it would look.” He picked up his phone and started typing. _“Can the Prince of Wales be exiled_ …”

Erik went to his room and shut the door. In the darkness, he kicked off his shoes, threw his backpack onto his chair, peeled off his jeans, and collapsed into bed. Summoning his phone to his hand, he scrolled through a few pages of news alerts, then switched to social media, but everything was blowing up with the news about Charles. By morning, there would be twenty think pieces. Every paper in the world would have an opinion piece out about telepathy and politics and the intersection — or necessary separation — of the two. And the tabloids — Erik didn’t even want to imagine the sordid half-truths and outright lies they’d be printing.

He wished for the first time that he’d gotten Charles’s number at some point over the last four months. More than ever, Charles would need a friendly voice now, someone who supported him without question.

 _And that’s you?_ said an incredulous voice in the back of his head — his own voice, hard and sharp. _You’ve never pretended to like him. He was a fuck buddy, that’s all. You weren’t friends. And after what you said to him, you’re probably the last person he’d ever want to hear from_.

Still, Erik wished he had a number to call. He had the sudden, desperate need to know that Charles was okay — shocked, terrified, nervous, angry probably, but okay. 

Instead, all he could do was refresh the news pages and social media over and over again, hoping for another glimpse of Charles, or some news of his arrival in London. But there was nothing, only frenzied speculation from every corner of the internet.

Eventually, Erik fell asleep, phone in hand.

*

Buckingham Palace came out with a very brief, very neutral statement about the rumors about Prince Charles’s mutant status. Later in the week, Charles himself gave a statement on camera, a short speech confirming that he was indeed a telepath and explaining the rationale behind keeping it a secret: they hadn’t intended to deceive anyone, they had merely felt it safest — and most palatable to the public — to keep Charles’s abilities hidden, and Charles had, in fact, been taking suppressants since he was a child, so there was no need to fear that he’d used his powers on anyone to turn them to his advantage. Charles was happy to submit to any number of medical tests to verify that he was on a regular dose of suppressants.

Erik hated every single word. So that explained why Erik had never sensed even a whisper of Charles’s telepathy — he’d been too fucking drugged up to use his powers. And even now that his secret had been revealed, he wasn’t going to embrace his abilities, wasn’t going to try to pretend that he thought of his mutation as anything other than a dirty embarrassment. He was still happy to pander to the baselines, eager to appease them at any cost.

 _Good thing you’re probably never coming back to New York,_ Erik thought venomously at the thumbnail of Charles’s face mid-speech on his computer, _because you would_ not _want to hear what I have to say to you now._

But sometimes, usually when Erik lay in his bed at night in the dark scrolling through Google alerts for Charles’s name, his anger softened into something less familiar, something warm and tight in his chest that defied his attempts to name it. He looked at pictures of Charles at a presser, stills of Charles giving an interview on BBC, low-quality pap shots of Charles leaving Clarence House, and thought, _You look tired. I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could take back what I said to you about not knowing what it felt like to be a mutant. I wish we’d talked more so you could have trusted me with this._

But it was too late for that. Their relationship had never been anything more than sex, and now that was all they’d ever have. Erik found himself wishing he hadn’t been so rough with Charles on the night Charles had bailed him out of jail — if he’d known it would be the last time, he would have…he would have…

What?

Winter break passed in a haze. Erik spent most of it at home with his mother, who kept shooting him worried looks but didn’t pry. She dragged him to shul but otherwise left him alone to brood. He went on a lot of runs, sometimes twice a day. Somehow everything reminded him of Charles — the cold weather that would make Charles pile on cardigans and sweaters, the yellow cabs that Charles stared at in delight (“Just like in the movies!”), the coffeeshop where Charles would lean against the counter and flirt with Erik as if he wasn’t already sure Erik would yank him to the backroom at the first opportunity.

Erik missed him. Not just because of the sex. Erik missed _him_ , having him there, hearing his laugh, arguing with him, making Charles concede his point, kissing Charles to shut him up. The realization made his chest hurt with that tight feeling again, something that ached so fiercely that sometimes he had to breathe deeply until it passed.

Going back to school was a relief. At least with his classes, he had something to focus on besides Charles. He reunited with Kitty and his other friends, and though they tried to question him a few times about Charles, he shut them down so harshly that they soon learned not to bring the subject up around him.

Life, for the most part, went back to normal, the way it had been before the Prince of Wales had ever come to New York.

Then one afternoon, they were sitting around a table at Joe’s Pizza when Azazel, who had been scrolling through his phone, straightened abruptly and breathed out, “Holy shit.”

All of them looked up. “What?” Kitty said.

“The prince. Charles. He’s in the hospital.”

Erik’s heart seized.

 _“What?”_ Kitty demanded, lunging across the table to get a look at his phone. “What happened? Let me see!”

His fingers numb, Erik pulled out his own phone and opened his Google alerts. There on the top was a breaking story from the BBC: _Prince Charles admitted to King Edward VII Hospital in London._ And underneath that was a Daily Mail headline: _BREAKING: Prince Charles hospitalized after suspected drug overdose_.

Erik couldn’t breathe.

“Holy shit,” Sean said, eyes wide as he stared down at his own phone. “Whoa.”

“He’s okay, right?” Kitty said, anxious. “What does the article say?”

“It doesn’t say,” Azazel replied as he scrolled.

“Shit.” Kitty covered her mouth with a hand. “Shit.”

“I’ll text Moira,” Sean announced. “She’ll probably know, right?”

That broke through the haze that had descended over Erik’s mind. He whirled on Sean. “Moira? Moira MacTaggert?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“ _You have her number?”_

“Uh…yeah?” Sean threw up both hands, as if he was afraid Erik was going to tackle him out of his seat. “We sort of hit it off. She gave me her number, and we’ve been texting.”

Erik resisted the urge to snatch him by the collar and shake him. “Call her. Right now. I want to talk to her.”

“Uh, she technically said I shouldn’t call her without texting first — ”

“ _Call her_.”

No one said a word as Sean opened his contacts, pressed a number, and held his phone up to his ear. He kept his eyes on Erik the whole time, watching him like a cornered mouse might watch a prowling cat. After a few agonizing seconds, his lips twitched into a smile, and he said, “Hey, Moira, sorry for calling out of the blue, I know it’s not protocol but — ”

Erik yanked the phone out of his hand with a tug of his powers. “Hey!” Sean exclaimed, but Erik already had the phone against his ear. “It’s Erik,” he said. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

There was a long silence. Then MacTaggert said flatly, “What do you want?”

Erik hadn’t realized until that moment what it was that he wanted, but the answer spilled out, without thought, without hesitation. “I want to see him.”

“He’s in no condition to be receiving visitors right now — ”

“ _Please_.” Erik clutched the phone with both hands. “Please. I need to see him.”

Another long silence. Then: “I’ll call you back,” and a click as the line went dead.

“What was _that_ about?” Azazel said into the ensuing silence, but Kitty elbowed him hard enough that he shut up.

Ten minutes later, Sean’s phone chimed with a text: _Newark Liberty to Heathrow, 2:15PM, Lufthansa._ A moment after that, Erik’s phone pinged with an email: confirmation of a ticket booked in his name on a nonstop trip to London.

“Az,” Erik said, standing, “I need a huge favor.”

*

A car was waiting for him when he landed in London at ten p.m. Erik didn’t recognize the driver or the man in the black suit sent along to escort him, but neither of them asked any questions. He stowed his suitcase in the trunk, climbed into the back of the car, and asked, “Where are we going?” To his relief, the driver replied, “To hospital.”

There was a small gathering of reporters and cameras out in front of the hospital, but they drove around to the back to a private entrance. MacTaggert was waiting just inside, frowning severely when she spotted him.

“Good,” she said, her voice clipped. “You made it.”

Her glower made him feel both defiant and self-conscious. Instead of reacting, he asked, “Is he alright?”

“He’s stable.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

MacTaggert led him into an elevator and waited until the doors had closed before rounding on him. “The only reason you’re here,” she said icily, “is because Charles wants you to be. The second that’s not true anymore, you’re going right back on a plane back to New York. Understand?”

Erik felt like he was supposed to be more cowed by her threat, but all he could say was, “Charles wants me here?”

MacTaggert said nothing, though a muscle in her jaw clenched. They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, where she stepped out and led him along a long, empty corridor to a room at the corner. At the door, she said lowly, “Don’t fuck this up again.”

 _Again?_ Erik wanted to say. Before he could though, she opened the door and thrust him inside.

For a few moments, Erik simply stood in the doorway, his eyes roving restlessly over the room. Hospital bed, monitors, a gigantic TV on the wall, an untouched dinner tray on the table, a couch and chair, a row of windows with the curtains tightly drawn over them. Then, at last, when he could no longer avoid looking, he let his gaze fall on the bed.

Charles was looking back at him, his eyes a faint blue in the dim light of the room. He was lying down, the head of the bed slightly elevated, blankets drawn up to his chest. He wore a hospital gown that was tugged crooked at the collar, and he looked — God, he looked awful. Bruise-like shadows under his eyes, dullness in his gaze, his skin so pale Erik thought he could almost see through it. Erik’s heart ached.

“Hello,” Charles said finally.

“Hi,” Erik said, when his throat unstuck.

“You can come sit, you know. I won’t bite.”

Slowly, Erik moved over to stand by the bed railing. Up close, Charles looked even worse, his hair an unruly, tangled mess, his face blotchy, IVs and lines sticking out of his arms. Erik fought off the urge to take his hand.

“How was the flight?” Charles asked.

Erik had no patience for pleasantries. “What happened?”

Charles winced. “I should have known you’d get right to it.”

“Did you really…did you try to…” Erik couldn’t finish. The thought was too horrible.

Charles laughed, a thin, wan sound. “No. That’s the embarrassing thing about it — it was a bloody accident.” He paused, then added more quietly, “I suppose I should have known that mixing my meds with that much alcohol was a bad idea.”

The knot in Erik’s chest that had been tightening incrementally ever since that morning loosened slightly. “Oh.”

“I imagine you have a lot of questions.”

“A few.”

“I’ll do my best to answer them. I owe it to you, after all.”

Erik ran his hand along the bed railing restively. How many times had he imagined seeing Charles again? How many questions had he thought of over the last few weeks, an entire interrogation he’d resolved to subject Charles to if they ever met again?

“You’re a telepath,” he said at last.

“Yes.”

“You never told me.”

“I never told anyone. Only a very select number of people ever knew. My parents, of course, the royal physician, my butler at Clarence House, Moira.” Charles exhaled slowly, his lips twitching in a humorless smile. “And now the whole world.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“That you were outed like that. No one should have to go through that.”

“It could have been worse.” When Erik gave him a disbelieving look, Charles said, “I could have been outed in… _other_ ways. Then you would have been caught up in it. I would have hated for that to happen.”

Erik swallowed hard. Even after all this time, Charles was thinking of him. Charles had always been thinking of him, with every free dinner, every time he’d offered the car to drive Erik home, every time he’d come before Erik and then immediately said, “Right, can’t leave you hanging, can we?” without even pausing to savor his own orgasm.

“Why?” Erik said, his throat tight. “I’ve never been anything but — I was never kind to you.”

Charles gave him a puzzled smile. “Yes, you were. You bought me that donut one time. And you comped my tea and muffin almost every time I came into your café.”

Erik stared at him. “That was nothing.” A donut, one time? Charles was grasping at straws.

Charles’s smile softened. “To be honest, I liked the way you weren’t impressed by me in the slightest. You were never afraid to argue with me. You never backed down. And you treated me like — well, like you’d treat anyone else. You were never careful with me just because I was the prince.”

Erik wanted to laugh. “And that’s a good thing?” 

“You can’t imagine how much I appreciated that.”

“Even after what I said you that last time?”

Now Charles grimaced. “I wish…I should have said something. But I was scared, and by the time I’d worked up the courage, you were already gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Over the last few weeks, Erik had composed a very neat, elegant apology should he ever see Charles again, but all those pretty words blew out of his mind like smoke on the wind. Instead, he said gracelessly, “I’m sorry. That was — what I said wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have assumed so much about you.”

“It’s alright,” Charles said mildly. “You couldn’t have known, and everything you said was true anyway. I _am_ privileged. I _am_ lucky. I live a more comfortable life than most people in the world will ever know, and I was born right into it. I’m the worst example of generational wealth and privilege.” He paused. “And I _can_ be a condescending tosser from time to time.”

Erik laughed weakly. It was at that moment that he realized just how afraid he’d been that he’d never get to see Charles again, never get to hear his voice and be subjected to his gentle teasing humor one more time. His legs weak, he sank into the chair beside Charles’s bed and hung his head, struggling to navigate the logjam of emotions in his chest.

After a long few minutes of silence, Charles said tentatively, “Is that all you came here for? To say that?”

“And to see if you were okay,” Erik said roughly. “When I saw the news…God, I was so fucking scared.”

“Scared?”

“I thought…”

“Careful, Erik,” Charles said with a smile, except there was an edge to his voice, “one might think you actually cared about me.”

Erik _did_ care, didn’t he? He thought suddenly that he’d always cared, deep down, but he’d always hidden it behind all those flashy arguments, all those furious debates and long-ingrained defense mechanisms. He’d kept Charles at arm’s distance because it had been safer that way, because he’d known on some instinctive level that if he let Charles close, he would never recover from it. But somehow, despite all his attempts to prevent it, Charles had wormed his way close anyway, into some previously untouched corner of Erik’s heart that he was only just now discovering existed.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Erik said.

Charles arched a dark eyebrow. “Not that I’m disagreeing, but might I ask why?”

“I missed you,” he said, feeling something deep inside him breaking open, like a dam that had long been keeping floodwaters at bay. “I’ve missed you every single fucking second since the day you left. For the longest time, I told myself that what we had was just sex, so I had no reason to miss you. But it was more than that. At least, for me it was. It just took me forever to realize it.”

When he looked up again, Charles was holding himself very still, as if he were afraid Erik might vanish if he breathed too hard. “So,” he said carefully, oh-so-carefully, “you… _do_ care about me?”

“I think I might be in love with you,” Erik told him bluntly, and it was easy to say with that dam in his chest broken open, spilling out every truth he had ever held back, even from himself.

Charles inhaled sharply. “Oh.”

“Don’t feel obligated to say anything,” Erik added, realizing abruptly that one was probably _not_ supposed to tell the Prince of Wales that he loved him, not after they’d spent only three and a half months together, and most of that time had been occupied with fucking and doing little else. “I know there’s probably protocol or some shit, and you’re probably engaged to some princess or duchess so this would never work out anyway — ”

“I’m in love with you, too,” Charles interrupted.

Erik gaped at him like a hooked fish.

Charles grinned wanly. “I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you the second you turned around in our Mutant History class and told me I was an idiot and a coward for ‘preferring the sanitized version of history.’ I don’t, for the record. Prefer the sanitized version of history, I mean.”

Erik struggled to respond for a moment, then just shut his mouth dumbly.

“Honestly, Erik,” Charles said lightly, “what did you think we were doing, having dinner practically every night? Haven’t you ever heard of a date before?”

“That was — we were just killing time…”

“Yes, and talking about things, and sharing a meal, and getting to know each other. You know, what one generally does on a date.”

“You thought we were dating the whole time?” Erik said, simultaneously incredulous and mortified.

“No.” Charles’s smile seemed tired all of a sudden. “I knew we weren’t. I just…wanted as much of you as I could get, I suppose.”

Once again, Erik’s heart ached. This time he couldn’t resist the urge to reach up and take Charles’s hand, lacing their fingers together before Charles could startle away.

“I’m sorry I was an ass,” he said quietly.

Charles huffed and shifted, but didn’t pull away. “Which time?”

“Every time,” Erik said with a pang of embarrassed amusement.

Squeezing his hand, Charles laughed softly. “You’re forgiven. More than forgiven. You flew halfway around the world at a moment’s notice to see me. That earns you some points.”

“You scared me to death.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Please don’t.”

He rested his head against the side of the bed, and Charles reached over with his other hand to comb his fingers through Erik’s hair gently, a fond caress. Erik closed his eyes and wondered how he had ever convinced himself that he felt nothing for Charles, that this thing between them had been purely physical and nothing else. It seemed ludicrous now. His chest went hot and tight every time Charles touched him.

“What now?” he asked eventually, his voice muffled against the mattress.

“Stay? For a few days at least.”

“Can I?”

“I should be released tomorrow, as long as my labs come back fine. You could stay at Clarence House with me. I’ll have Moira arrange things.”

“Alright.”

“Erik?”

The uncertain waver to Charles’s voice made him lift his head. “What?”

“I understand completely if this changes your mind,” Charles said slowly, “but there have to be…limitations. At least for now. This…” He squeezed Erik’s hand again. “…can’t be public. No one can know.”

Erik swallowed. He’d once thought that he could never date a man who wasn’t out; he had no patience for that, for the secrecy and pretending to be nothing more than good friends, or even distant acquaintances. And yet, with Charles, he understood. The country — hell, the _world_ — had already been rocked recently by one scandal. It couldn’t handle another one, not so soon. Charles’s public image would never survive.

“Ever?” he asked. 

“No, I…I want to tell the world one day. Did I tell you I’m weaning off the suppressants?” He smiled weakly. “Part of why I’ve been on an alcohol binge, I think. It made me feel steadier with all the voices in my head. Anyway, the point is, I want to live honestly. I want to live as myself. And this…us…it’s part of that. But not yet. Mother’s already threatened to lock me in Clarence House and not let me out until the public’s forgotten what I look like. If we came out with this now, she’d probably have me quietly done in and tossed into the sea, honestly.”

Erik huffed and ran his thumb over Charles’s knuckles. He didn’t like it, but he understood the necessity. Still, he couldn’t let it go easily. “And if they never accept you? A gay mutant king?”

“Then…” Charles took in a trembling breath, blew it back out. “Then I’ll abdicate. I’ll leave. I’ve always thought that I could do good with the crown, but I don’t need it. If the choice is between it and you…well, that’s easy.”

And Erik knew then that he would do literally anything for this man. Ask him to leap and he’d make the leap, no questions asked.

“I am…very stupidly in love with you,” he whispered.

Charles looked at him with naked wonder. After a moment, he freed his hand from Erik’s and put his hand under Erik’s jaw, guiding him gently out of the chair until he was standing, leaning over Charles, and pressing their mouths together.

For the first time, the kiss they shared was gentle, sweet, and careful. Erik cradled Charles’s face with a hand, drinking him in, and Charles pulled him closer, his mouth soft against Erik’s. _I’m in love with the Prince of Wales_ , Erik thought. Somehow the idea felt like the most natural one in the world.

Eventually, Charles drew back reluctantly and stroked a thumb along Erik’s cheek. “Much as I would like to welcome you properly, I’m rather knackered at the moment. I’m sure you’re jetlagged, too. If you’d like, Moira can arrange for you to be taken to Clarence House, or to a hotel if you’d prefer. We both need a good night’s sleep, I think.”

“And if I didn’t want to go?”

Charles gave him a considering look. “You probably shouldn’t stay. A nurse could walk in. Or some other staff member could see you.”

“It’s probably a bad idea,” Erik agreed.

After a moment, Charles shifted over. “I suppose that’s why we have NDAs.”

Erik laughed. Feeling reckless and heady, he climbed onto the bed and carefully slotted himself in beside Charles, gingerly pushing aside the IV tubing as he wrapped an arm around Charles and drew him close. Pressing his nose to Charles’s curls, he said, “I missed this.”

“I seem to recall you being curiously allergic to cuddling,” Charles murmured.

“Like I said, I’m an idiot.”

Laughing softly, Charles turned so that he could press his face against Erik’s shoulder. Breathing deep, he said, “I missed this, too. You.”

His chest tight, Erik stroked a slow hand down Charles’s spine. “Get some rest. You look terrible.”

“Charming,” Charles said dryly, and they both laughed.

Charles was more exhausted than he let on though; within minutes, he was soundly asleep, curled up tight against Erik. Arm wrapped securely around him, Erik pressed a kiss to Charles’s hair. He had no idea how he’d survived these last few weeks without this. Without him.

“I love you,” Erik whispered against Charles’s hair, testing the words out again. Charles made a soft, sleepy sound and shifted closer, and Erik’s heart swelled so full of love that he felt like he might fly apart at the seams if he let go of Charles for even an instant.

He knew he should probably stay awake, just in case. He could sense if someone approached and be out of the bed before they came in, casually present at a safe, platonic distance. But with Charles burrowed against his chest, he couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to, and he most certainly didn’t want to.

An hour, he thought. He’d risk it for an hour, then get up and ask Moira to send him off to a hotel.

He let his eyes slide closed and was out like a light.

*

In the morning, Moira cracked the door open very carefully and peered inside. The sight awaiting her in the bed didn’t surprise her in the slightest: Charles was curled around that American boy of his like an octopus, blankets tangled around their legs, his face mashed up against Erik’s shoulder blade. They were both utterly dead to the world; Moira doubted Godzilla himself rampaging through London could have woken them up.

Strangely enough, despite the lingering anger she harbored against Erik for the way he’d treated Charles, Moira couldn’t deny that this felt very right, somehow. And it made Charles happy, which was the only thing that mattered really, in the end.

“Excuse me,” said a hesitant voice from behind her.

Moira pushed the door shut again with admirable calm, pretending as if her heart hadn’t just leaped in fright in her chest. “Yes?”

The nurse gestured to the door. “I’m sorry, but I need to check on His Royal Highness for his morning set of vitals.”

Moira smiled and laid a hand on the nurse’s arm, gently but firmly turning her back around and steering her down the hall in the direction she’d come. “Let’s give him a few more minutes, shall we? He’s sleeping better than he has in ages.” 


End file.
